


We Go to Waste Like Wine

by whenitsdarkest



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, And Maybe Smut?, Angst, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Repressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenitsdarkest/pseuds/whenitsdarkest
Summary: Grace struggles with her nearly lifelong addiction to alcohol, perfection, the need to be in control, and self-loathing.  When Santa Fe is brought up, things start to sway out of her control, and so does her grip on her addiction.





	We Go to Waste Like Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after season 3 - Frankie is still struggling with her decision to go with Jacob to Santa Fe.
> 
> This is my first Grace and Frankie fic, and after reading literally every single one here, there may be subtle nods to others who have forged the path ahead. You're all amazing, and I can only aspire to convey two complex opposite yet compatible characters as well as you all have.
> 
> Trying my hand at flashback scenes, so hopefully it is not too confusing.

_“These days we go to waste like wine_  
_That's turned to turpentine_  
_It's six AM and I'm all messed up_  
_I didn't mean to waste your time_  
_So I'll fall back in line_  
_But I'm warning you we're growing up_

_I heard you found some pretty words to say_  
_You found your little game to play_  
_And there's no one allowed in_  
_Then just when we believe we could be great_  
_Reality it permeates_  
_And conquers from within again” – Brandi Carlile_

**Current Day - Evening**

The steady rhythmic beep seemed to echo endlessly. A soundtrack left on repeat, joined occasionally by the cacophony of voices over the hospital loudspeaker, voices in the hallway, voices in the room. But none of those voices were the one that Frankie truly wanted to hear. Admittedly, it was the same one that she wanted to stop hearing earlier that day.

The brunette with salt and pepper teased hair sat stoically next to the hospital bed, the characteristically uncomfortable plastic chair wedged impossibly close to the mattress. She was nearly draped over the thin body that was bundled beneath several layers of blankets. Turned away from the doorway with her elbows resting on the side of the bed, Frankie stared down at her hands. Her fingers were entwined with the fingers of the right hand belonging to the body lying on the bed, the slender digits were limp and unmoving within Frankie’s grasp.

“Oh, Grace,” she whispered, for most likely the hundredth time that evening. Frankie had lost count in between receiving the call from hospital and finally being allowed into the room. Her gaze lifted slowly, pained to see the woman in front of her with an IV line trailing out of the top of her left hand which was placed on top of her ribcage, tucked into a sling.  An oxygen hose was taped into place beneath her nostrils, a bandage covered nearly half of her forehead, and spots of dried blood clumped on fine strands of blonde hair which fanned out around her on the pillow like a lopsided halo.

“ _Stabilized but we need to take precautions_ ” was the only diagnosis that had been revealed to Frankie thus far, and while she wanted more answers, more explanations, she also could not bring herself to leave Grace’s bedside. It was as if being next to her and holding her hand would bring her back sooner.

Frankie pulled her right hand away from clasping Grace’s fingers, her left hand still tangled in a firm grip, and reached to Grace’s face. She traced her roughened fingertips along her jawline and up to the spot where Grace’s forehead met her hair. Sighing heavily, Frankie smoothed her hand over the blood-splattered hair and brought their entwined fingers up to her mouth to press her lips to Grace’s fingers.

“Oh, Grace. Please wake up, I need to talk to you. I need you to talk to me…” Frankie spoke so quietly she wasn’t sure she had said it aloud.

The words were 180 degrees opposite of what she had spewed out in frustration earlier that day. It was not often, but sometimes there were situations where Frankie felt like taking back her words, and today was that day. For too long, she had bared the brunt of the disease that gripped Grace on a daily basis. Some days were better than others; she could be tolerable, lighthearted, or plain silly and un-Grace-like, even eating cake of all things. Other days, Frankie would hear Grace in the half-bathroom, retching out every ounce of food and liquid inside her body. Or if she wasn’t driven to hurling out her insides, she would hurl insults Frankie’s way, no sign of teasing or friendliness in sight. Lately, the bad days seemed to be more prevalent, especially with most of the heavy lifting done with Vybrant and the company being on a somewhat automated path. Grace didn’t have enough to devote her attention to except a clear liquid – and it wasn’t water.

Frankie felt the guilt swirl in her stomach, wishing she could have taken back the whole course of that day. Nevermind the fact that _she_ shouldn’t be the one overwhelmed with guilt, but she couldn’t help it. She felt responsible for Grace being hooked up to oxygen and IVs, her body void of any movement aside from the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Her right hand slid down from Grace’s golden hair, and trailed down her cheek, along her exposed neck and came to its resting place on her shoulder. Frankie’s thumb traced the bone of Grace’s shoulder through the papery thin material of her hospital gown, moving from right to left slowly in tandem with the beeping of the monitors hooked up to her.

 

**Earlier That Day – Early Afternoon**

A shrill beep interrupted Frankie’s sentence as she twirled mid-step to head back toward the kitchen. “Hey, Jacob, can I give you a call back later?” She paused, listening to his response as she pressed the button to open the microwave while maneuvering her cell phone to rest between her chin and her shoulder. The plate of tater tots was steaming and she snapped her fingers away quickly to give her hand a shake. “Too hot” did not register in her brain fast enough.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I’ll try to think about it some more, it’s just,” she trailed off. “It’s a lot to think about, a lot to consider.” Her fingertips went back to the plate that was much too hot, the pain radiating through her skin as she let them sit there. It was too much. Everything was too much. Jacob’s idea of running off into the Santa Fe sunset, Coyote getting his life back on track, Bud starting his career, Vybrant’s future, Grace. _Grace_. Grace was too much for Frankie.

The phone was silent now, and Frankie let it slide from her shoulder and onto the counter with a clatter. It didn’t startle her, and the pain didn’t hurt as much in her fingers anymore. Mindlessly, she popped a tater tot into her mouth, wondering if she could escape Grace’s sodium-radar by putting a little bit of salt on them. Frankie was impressed that Grace’s daily vodka-induced stupor only minimally affected her ability to police Frankie’s food choices. She could do without the insults and coldness, but at the end of the day she always forgave Grace and made the excuse that she had a tough life (hadn’t they all?) and deserved to enjoy herself (at the expense of others?).

“Ugh, isn’t it too early to clog your arteries?” Speak of the devil – if the devil was an elegantly gorgeous woman with perfectly styled locks of gold, hip-hugging jean-clad legs that went on for days, and a freshly pressed white button-up shirt with a popped collar – Grace strolled to the fridge, pulling the freezer side open to pull out an un-opened bottle of vodka. There was only a slight stumble in her step, indicating that this was likely not her first drink of the early afternoon.

In response, Frankie tossed two tater tots into her mouth and munched with a smirk and forced happiness. “Mmm, nope, never!” She watched as Grace set the bottle on the island, and went to work on putting other ingredients on the counter for a Bloody Mary. Leaning against the counter by the microwave, she let her gaze travel along Grace’s form, watching her practiced movements as she made the drink.

Another tater tot made its way to Frankie’s mouth, and she spoke with her mouth half-full, “Besides, I have you know that I did not add any salt to these, Warden Hanson.”

“Hah, that’s a first, and one I can’t believe,” Grace scoffed as she poured way more than a shot into the glass of tomato mix, shaking her head, her back still to Frankie.

Frankie watched the blonde curls bounce around Grace’s head, and licked at the blister starting to form on her index finger from its earlier interaction with the heated dish. “Yeah…there’s a lot of things you say you can’t believe.” She didn’t mean for the comment to come out in such a low voice, but it did.

Grace rolled her eyes – Frankie can tell by the sharp flick of her hair. The bottle went back into the freezer, the mix into the fridge, and Grace finally looked at Frankie from across the island. A safe divide; a buffer for the person that feels too much and one that wishes she didn’t feel so much.

Things had been awkward between them since Frankie confessed that Jacob wanted her to move to Santa Fe. Grace found that drinking was her only constant and the only thing that kept any sort of feelings at bay. Feelings that she would rather not delve into with anyone, not even herself most of the time.

Frankie thought she saw Grace’s breath catch in her throat, but she’s not sure because the woman quickly looked away from her to grab her glass and gulp down her Bloody Mary as if it were a Green Tea Kombucha Kale smoothie. Frankie is pretty sure that it took Grace longer to make the drink than to actually consume it.

“I don’t see how it’s your business what I believe or don’t believe.” Another shake of her head in disbelief with a huff, and Grace turned to the freezer to pull the bottle out. The door had just released it’s automatic seal seconds ago. The red mixture is long forgotten as she poured the vodka into the glass by itself, foregoing putting it back into its rightful place in the freezer.

Frankie’s brow furrowed as she watched Grace, and she stepped forward to the island, placing both palms flat on it. “Why are you being so cold, Grace? I care about what you believe, and I care about your feelings. You’ve been acting this way ever since I told you about Santa Fe…” Her voice is surprisingly steady, and measured.

“Cold?” Another huff, and she repeated the word. “Cold? I’m not cold…that’s just how I am, and it's better than being an overly emotional idiot,” Grace said matter-of-factly, shoulders lifting into a shrug. The glass came to her lips for a long sip of vodka that was a tinge of pink with the remnants of tomato juice. After a moment of silence as Frankie let her continue, Grace snickered. “Y’know, I think you smoked a few too many joints that killed off some brain cells, girl. My beliefs and feelings don’t mean a damned thing, and you know it.” She pointed her index finger across the island toward Frankie to emphasize her point. “You’ve made that very apparent with your hippie farmer boyfriend and your ridiculous fairy tale of moving to Santa Fe.”

“Oh Grace, c’mon, that’s not fair…” Frankie leaned into the counter for support, her palms starting to sweat slightly at the comment Grace made about her beliefs and feelings not meaning anything. How could they matter if she wouldn’t say what they were? There was such a simple solution to this, but Frankie was not going to be the one to drag it out of Grace. It would have to come out unencumbered on its own.

“Not fair?! I’m not being fair?” Grace was starting to show some signs of intoxication, a slight slur dangling from her words here and there. Her responses starting as questions. Thankfully, the counter of the island could double as a brace for her as well, her left hand coming to rest on it as she leaned against it. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s probably common practice to move in with someone and start a business together and leave them holding all of the pieces on their own, right? You’ve never been one to follow through on anything, Frankie. You start things and leave them all the goddamn time, and let other people clean up your mess. I’m sick of cleaning up your fucking messes, I’m sick of you being under my feet all the time like some wounded fucking animal!”

The words were increasingly harsh as Grace continued. They were more personal, laced with more contempt and anger than Frankie had heard before, and it cut into her deeply. It was if Grace had thrown knives at her, so much so that she took a step back from the island, away from the blonde’s accusatory glare.

“Fine, I guess this helps me make my decision after all.” Frankie’s voice didn’t falter, and she was doing all she could to dig deep and not let it. She was not going to let Grace see her crumble. “I didn’t realize I was in your way, _princess_. With all of the times I had to help you clean up broken martini glasses in the kitchen or hold your hair while you puked your brains out from drinking too much, I thought maybe, just maybe, you considered me a friend. Not some stray.”

Grace did not seem to register any of the words, as her eyes left Frankie moments ago to rest on her glass. She took another long sip of the vodka in front of her to add more fuel to the fire of eliminating any feelings inside. “Maybe if you didn’t dress like you belonged in a shelter, I wouldn’t confuse you with a stray,” she said in a clipped tone. “No one asked you to stay and help me. I sure as hell didn’t.” The indignant tone added another layer to the already thick air.

It was getting harder to stand and take whatever Grace was throwing her way, but Frankie suddenly felt a resolve building. Maybe this is what she needed to realize she didn’t belong here. That Grace didn’t deserve her in any capacity.

“You’re right, Grace,” Frankie said quietly but firmly. She nodded her head a few times, taking steps toward the doorway that would lead outside to the studio. “You’re right, you didn’t ask for me. You can handle this,” her arms lifted, gesturing to the kitchen, “all of this on your own. You’re a motherfucking CEO, so I’m sure you can handle your booze-inflicted existence on your own. You’ll be able to find another fucking box to fit into for someone, I’m sure.”

Grace sneered, finishing the rest of her vodka in one large gulp and without warning, sent the glass hurtling in Frankie’s direction. Thanks to the numbed senses that dulled her accuracy, the glass missed Frankie’s body by a foot and collided with the doorframe, a few shards of glass sprinkling toward her.

Mouth agape in shock at the close call with the glass, Frankie froze momentarily. She saw the anger build inside of Grace as she stormed (half-stumbled) around the island and grabbed the next missile available, the half-eaten plate of tater tots. Soon that was launched into the air at her and also shattered into the doorframe, the tiny potato morsels pelting Frankie, who finally found the ability to move. She took a few more steps away as Grace continued to find odds and ends on the countertops to fling around the kitchen, not necessarily in Frankie’s direction any longer. Frankie was pretty sure her pilfered cute little corn salt and pepper shakers would be among the casualties.

“I don’t need you, Frankie! I don’t! I never have! Just go, go already!” Grace’s voice was shrill and loud, and Frankie tried desperately to uncover if there was even a tiny dose of sadness in it. “Go to fucking Santa Fe, go to Mars for fuck’s sake! I give ZERO fucks where you go!” Another crash – most likely the wooden tray of lemons judging by the soft thumps after the crash.

Hidden in the alcove by the door that led to the side of the house, Frankie cringed, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. Her hand was poised on the doorknob, ready to make her escape.

“Glad to hear, Hanson!” Frankie yelled back toward the kitchen. “It’ll make it that much easier for me to never want to talk to you again!” Drawing in a deep breath, she yanked the door open and slammed it as hard as her elderly bones would allow her to do so without breaking anything. Fully intent on heading to the studio to start packing, Frankie took a moment to swallow a full deep breath of air to calm herself. She could still hear things being thrown in the kitchen, and then a few seconds of silence. Her spine seemed to prickle at that, and she turned back to the house, bracing herself for whatever might happen next.

The door whipped open, Grace’s slender body and overpowering drunken fury seemed to take up all of the space, all of the air.

“You forgot your fucking phone, you might need it to call your boyfriend to pick you up,” the word ‘boyfriend’ was practically spat out. Instead of handing the phone over like any decent person would, Grace lofted it in the air at Frankie.

Scrambling to save her phone from impending doom, Frankie lurched forward arms outstretched to catch the device before it met the ground. Nearly falling over in the process, Frankie growled, and straightened up, her phone safe in her hands. “Gladly,” she said icily. “I can’t wait to get out of here, away from you.”

“Likewise! I can’t wait to be rid of your terrible paintings and horrible eating habits! It’s like having the roommate from hell!” Grace exclaimed, throwing both hands in the air. “I can’t wait for you to be someone else’s problem!”

Frankie swallowed back any further response, taking slow steps backward away from Grace as she made her way to the studio. Her chest heaved, trying to draw more air into her lungs, but it was if something stopped working. Did the air get thicker again? Did her lungs stop pulling air in? She shook her head, tears starting to well up, and finally turned away from Grace as she stalked into the studio, slamming the door behind her.

The lock clicked.


End file.
